“No, no, dear father!” she cried, “I cannot, I cannot wed him. It would break my heart.”
“Stuff!” he cried, caressing her; “what dost thou know of breaking hearts and such silly, girlish fancies? He brings thee jewels, and thou wilt have gay brocades. Why, my sweet pet, thou wilt drive Anne Beckley mad with envy. Mark me, she meant to wed Sir Mark herself.”
“Father, dear,” said Mace, kissing him, and speaking in a low, appealing voice, “it is not like you to speak to your little girl like this. Do I care to flaunt in gay clothes—to try and best Anne Beckley? Have I any such ideas as these?”
“No, no, child; may be not,” he said, stroking her hair; “but—but—I’d like to see thee a grand dame.”
“Would it make you happier, dear?” she replied, kissing him fondly as she nestled to his breast.
“Well, well, yes, of course,” he said hastily.
“Nay, nay, father, dear, you would never, never be happy again if you sold me to that man.”
“Sold!” he cried furiously, for that truthful word stung him to his heart. “How dare you say that, ungrateful girl that thou art? How dare you?”
“Because it is true,” cried Mace, drawing back from him to stand, white and angry, at bay. “Father, you are trying to sell me to this man!”
“It is a lie—a damned lie!” he cried furiously. “Mace, thou hast been listening to that villain—that scoundrel—that murderer—Gil Carr, again.”